


Candles

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Age Play, M/M, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:59:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Meludir asks a curious thing of Thranduil for his royal gift.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “ageplay” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/149673766130/fic-bingo).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s been some forty years since Thranduil’s done this: had an elf of two hundred and fifty to summon before his throne. Meludir approaches the raised dais with his head respectfully bowed but the excitement all over his eyes. He’s very, very young, and yet to learn how to conceal his enthusiasm. His aura is palpable. He comes to stand in the center of the platform, where he greets in hushed reverence, “My king.”

“Meludir,” Thranduil returns. He doesn’t miss the sudden joy that flares in Meludir’s smile. Perhaps he didn’t think that someone so grand as Thranduil would have any idea who he was. But Thranduil keeps track of all his subjects and all their years, and when they’ve lived a quarter of a century, he grants them this one honour. He asks Meludir, “What have you chosen for your gift? If it is in my power, you shall have it.”

Thranduil had to add that stipulation when Feren wished to wed Yavanna herself. He was quite disappointed to learn that the Woodland’s Realm long standing tradition of royal gifts is simply that: tradition, and not the work of miracles. Hopefully Meludir has better sense.

Meludir opens his mouth, closes it, sucks in a breath and straightens out his posture. It’s clear that he’s hesitant to ask anything of his lord; his eyes are still averted. But he dares to lift them when he whispers, “My king’s touch.”

At first, Thranduil thinks he may have misheard. He lifts one brow, waits, and Meludir’s soft cheeks flush pink. He licks his lips and says louder, clearer, “My... my king’s touch is what I wish for, my lord.” Thranduil nods merely to show that he’s heard this one.

He’s surprised, to say the least, though he knows that many of his subjects lust after him. There is a lengthy difference between those of equal years admiring his beauty and spring elflings younger than his son dreaming of him. At least it’s quite flattering. He lets that settle in a moment before he drawls, “I am far, far older than you, little leaf.” The nickname is one he usually gives only to Legolas, but the effect here is meant to be finishing—yet Meludir’s face brightens all the more at the familiar term rather than the condescending implication.

“I know this, my lord,” he answers eagerly, “but I am only more enamoured by your wisdom and experience.” 

Thranduil chuckles. Meludir’s smile opens to show his perfect teeth, his lips a shimmering hue of cherry with ample dimples on each side. He has a distinctly pleasant face, one of the most endearing Thranduil’s seen in many years, but the softness of youth is part of that. Still, it calls to him. Thranduil rises from his throne, leaving his staff where it is and coming regally forward. He descends the stairs, reaches the platform where Meludir stands, and finds that simple beauty only magnified by proximity. Meludir dutifully remains in place.

At first, Thranduil merely takes a slow stroll around Meludir’s supple form. It’s on the smaller side, trim, with just the faint hint of curves highlighted by his tight breeches and fitted tunic. It’s one of the first times Thranduil’s seen him out of uniform, not that Thranduil eyes any of his underlings much. He certainly wouldn’t be preying on his youngest guards if it weren’t by invitation. There have been very few quarter-century gifts that Thranduil hasn’t been willing to grant. 

He’s had to deny three separate elves Legolas’ hand in marriage. He would not grant another ownership of his stag, nor would he part with all his rings. But this is the first time anyone has requested _him_ , and the more he eyes Meludir, the more he thinks it an agreeable suggestion.

Not moral, perhaps. His father would never have bedded any younger than Thranduil. But Meludir _is_ of age, and technically, Meludir did not ask for the honour of Thranduil’s bed.

Thranduil stops behind Meludir and takes a step closer. He’s far taller, and it’s easy to slip his chin over Meludir’s shoulder and purr into one delicately pointed ear, “You are but a _child_ to me.”

A visible shiver snakes its way down Meludir’s spine. His head tilts subtly back, body arching, but he stays where he is. He answers huskily, “I am grown and have been so for more than a century, my lord. ...But I will play the role of a naughty youth that overreaches, if that is what my king should prefer.”

Very, very _tempting_. Thranduil wraps one arm around Meludir’s body, resting lightly at Meludir’s hip and drawing him back, pressing them oh-so-slightly together. Meludir’s breath hitches, his head lolling aside to make more room for Thranduil. Thranduil scrapes his teeth along the cartilage of Meludir’s ear and bites into the lower shell, hissing after, “I prefer for my proverbial children to know their place.”

Meludir makes a lewd, desperate mewling sound, and now he leans back to rest his head on Thranduil’s shoulder. His arms stay subserviently at his sides, but the rest of him contorts in wanton display. Thranduil leaves his one hand where it is and reaches the other around to splay against Meludir’s thin chest. He crushes Meludir into him as he murmurs, “You know, the Men of Dale used to take disobedient children over their knee...” His hand slips lower, raking down the lean line of Meludir’s stomach, right over to his crotch—Meludir gasps and bucks forward.

“I will gladly lay myself across your lap,” Meludir promises, only to gulp and quickly add, “my lord.” Thranduil rewards the catch with another nip at Meludir’s ear.

He cups Meludir right between the legs, assessing what’s there to meet him—nothing hard, but a definite dampness. He squeezes once, drinks in Meludir’s broken cry, and slips his fingers beneath the hem of Meludir’s breeches. As he cups and kneads Meludir’s wet folds, pure skin-on-skin, he hisses, “I found the practice barbaric. But I suppose you are not quite _so_ young...”

Certainly too young for this, but enough that Thranduil digs his index finger between Meludir’s moist lips and rubs at the hole he finds. Meludir’s trembling only increases, his cheeks dark with lust and his lashes heavy. Thranduil can smell the arousal on him. It’s all too easy to push one finger inside, and Meludir’s greedy channel squeezes around it and tries to pull it deeper. Thranduil sinks in slowly, gently, all the way to the knuckle, where he crooks his finger and strokes at Meludir’s velvety insides.

Meludir is a wreck in his hands. Meludir writhes and whines as Thranduil fingers him right in the middle of his throne room, Meludir’s occasional cries echoing through the cavernous hall. When one finger isn’t enough to enjoy such a tight squeeze, Thranduil works in a second, and he kneads Meludir apart, not to stretch but to stimulate, carefully stroking the angles that make Meludir squirm the most. Meludir’s clit is a twisted little nub at the top of his outer lips that Thranduil has fun toying with. Meludir soaks his hand, wetter with every thrust of fingers, so wet that Thranduil’s sure he could thrust his entire hand inside if he wished it. He stops at three fingers instead and contents himself with how overwhelmed Meludir already seems. It’s clear that he doesn’t have enough experience with this—he has so little control. He responds so freshly to everything. He isn’t someone that could last with Thranduil in bed by any means, but he’s certainly a fun toy to play with for this short time.

When Meludir has tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, his pussy practically convulsing and his chest heaving with his laboured breath, Thranduil idly asks, “Have you ever seen the turn of an age, Meludir...?”

Meludir shakes his head against Thranduil’s shoulder and seems quite unable to do any more. His hands reach back to clutch at Thranduil’s hips, simply trying to hold himself up. Thranduil asks, “Do you have any idea how many summers I have seen? How many elves just like you have come before my throne? You should not be so quick to give yourself away to your seniors...”

Meludir lets out a choked sob and moans, “But you are _extraordinarily_ skilled for it, m-my... lord... ah!” He arches up as Thranduil curves his fingers in, and his parted lips are almost tempting enough for Thranduil to turn him around and do this _properly_ , fill him with tongue and more than just fingers. 

But Meludir would never last, and Thranduil murmurs into his ear, “You are a good little boy who at least listens to his elders, are you not, Meludir?”

Meludir nods, gasping, “O-of course!” But then he quickly licks his lips and amends, “M-my lord... if you tell me t-to... _ahhh_... to leave, I...”

Thranduil orders only, “Come.”

Meludir obeys his king’s command. He screams his release, tossing back and bubbling up, his juices squelching around Thranduil’s still-moving fingers. Thranduil continues fucking Meludir with them, riding out the tremours and milking Meludir’s orgasm for all it’s worth. He doesn’t stop until Meludir is panting and motionless, held up only by Thranduil’s arms. 

Thranduil slithers his hand out with a sickly wet sound. As soon as he lets go, Meludir’s legs collapse, and he falls to his knees. Thranduil lets him breathe for a moment, then twists sullied fingers into his honey-coloured hair. With a little tug, Meludir’s head is forced back, dilated eyes drawn up to Thranduil. Thranduil can’t help his feral smirk and purrs, “A child of merely two hundred and fifty I cannot do much with... but an elf of three hundred, perhaps, may survive the strain of my bed.”

Meludir looks like he could melt through the platform at any second. He insists hoarsely, “Then in another fifty years, I will return, and I will plead for that honour.”

Thranduil nods. He expected no less. As alluring as Meludir’s sweet body is, Thranduil is a patient man, and he pulls himself away with the knowledge that this won’t be the end. 

By the time he’s settling back in his throne, Meludir is gathering himself together and stumbling from the hall, with wobbly legs and furtive looks over his shoulder. Thranduil watches him go and enjoys the calm thrum of anticipation.


End file.
